Author's Note: This is a work of near-future fiction; any resemblance to individuals alive or deceased is purely coincidental. It is my intent to post a chapter a day for the next six days.

Boise, Deseret
June, 2059

“I am John Covenant Brown, and by my oath I have spoken the truth.” As always, the closing words rolled out strong. Somehow the rasp in his voice, the lingering effect of an injury to his throat when he was eighteen, did not detract from its resonance.

He stepped down from the simple lectern and resumed his seat among the semi-circle of unadorned benches that seated the congregation. Presbyter Simeon concluded the simple memorial service for the deceased, who had already been cremated in accordance with the practices of the Congregation of the New Apostles.

By tradition, the Truth Speaker was invited to the meal of fellowship that followed the service. Like the sanctuary, the meeting hall was a simple structure, without the frills and embellishments of mainline churches. Plain plaster and wood, straight trestle tables and practical, stackable chairs. Brown was an almost ostentatiously plain man himself, so he should have felt right at home.

Unfortunately, Brown quickly concluded that he was in for what was almost becoming a new tradition – being pigeon-holed by community leaders to discuss church politics.

“Brother John!” Presbyter Simeon put his arm around the younger man, steering him towards a group of men who looked eerily similar. “You’ve done it again! You truly captured the essence of Brother Micah’s life.”

“Thank you, Presbyter,” he said politely. In simple fact, Micah Callan had been an uncomplicated soul whose life was driven by duty: the burden to care for the family after his father’s untimely death shaped every decision he made. He’d left school young to take over the farm; he had married the widow whose property adjoined it, and had found employment for both her children and, later, his siblings. But what might have been a tragedy for another person had been a blessing for Micah. After a wild youth, he’d discovered both his purpose and his place, and took great satisfaction from his marriage, his family, and his accomplishments.

Simeon was in the mood to lavish some additional praise, however. “What I appreciate most about you, Brother John, is that you give as much thought and care to illuminating the life of a humble brother like Micah as you gave to Chief Elder Markley.”

Before Brown could respond, Simeon said, “I want you to meet Brother Thomas, Brother Judah and Brother Isaac.”

The men shook hands solemnly, offering their own thoughts on Brown’s reflections during the service. But it wasn’t long before the Presbyter pushed the conversation in the direction of his thoughts. “Brother John, we were delighted when you agreed to be the Truth Speaker today; we’ve been hoping to talk with you about the vacancy on the Council of Elders. Has anyone from the leadership approached you?”

Brown shook his head, smiling. “Really, Presbyter! I appreciate that you would think of me for such a role. But I am very young, still.”

“You’re almost forty.” Simeon waved away the objection. “The Council has included a Truth Speaker, for as long as there have been Truth Speakers. Everyone was sure you would have the position when Elder Zebediah passed away.”

Brother Thomas nodded his agreement. “We all assumed that’s what Chief Elder Markley intended, when you chose you to speak at his funeral. What he was signalling to the Faithful.”

“And, you have always been a strong voice for the traditional values of the Congregation,” Brother Isaac added.

And that’s the rub, Brown thought. That’s why you want me in there. But that wasn’t a discussion he would have with anyone other than his wife, so he said, “There are more senior Truth Speakers, and I expect one of them has been selected. Do not be troubled, Brothers. God will guide the Council to make the right choice.”

“Sometimes God needs a little help,” Brother Isaac muttered.

“A bit of a cheering section, if you follow me,” said Brother Judah jovially.

The joke didn’t land. Brown’s pale eyes glinted dangerously and his brows lowered. “Brothers . . . you speak of the Divine.”

Presbyter Simeon put a hand on his arm, and his voice was honey smooth. “They ‘re just joking, Brother John.” He shot his friends a warning look. “In poor taste, admittedly.”

“Perhaps so,” Brown said, clearly unconvinced. “But it troubles me, deeply. We depend on God’s wisdom – not the other way around!”

Brother Thomas nodded. “Yes – but where else would we find God’s wisdom, than in scripture and tradition?”

“That has always been my approach,” Brown acknowledged.

“And that is why we hoped to see you elevated,” the Presbyter explained. “The balance on the Council–”

Brown held up a hand. “I understand. But we must trust the Divine to guide the Council – including in its appointments.”

This time, it was the locals who looked dubious.

~o~O~o~

The Brown Homestead outside of Moab, Deseret
The Following Day

Sarah Brown looked up at her husband from where she knelt, transplanting young lettuce shoots they had started indoors. To all appearances he was fully engrossed with turning the soil with the hoe he held loosely in his calloused hands.

She knew better. “C’mon, John. You’re thinking about more than lettuce this morning!”

His pale eyes softened as he shifted his gaze to her upturned face. “Should be ready to get the kale started, in a week or two.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, grinning. “And the spinach and turnips, too. It’s all on the schedule . . . like it is every year. And, since it is on the schedule, I don’t imagine that’s what’s got you in a classic Brown Study.”

That made him laugh, and he leaned on his hoe, looking down at the woman who had been both his wife and his partner for over a decade. “I don’t know how you do that, but I’m very glad you do.”

“What? Make you laugh?”

“Yes. That. No-one else can.”

She bent to stick the last green shoot in the ground, and pushed the potting soil around it. “Ellie and Noah don’t seem to have any trouble.”

“Only because they’re your children.” He shifted the hoe to his left hand and held out his right to lift her.

She allowed him to pull her up, then slipped an arm around his waist. “Let’s get washed. I’ve got some soup for lunch.”

His arm crossed hers and they walked back toward their house in companionable silence. On their left, the Colorado River flowed again, strong and seemingly eternal.

They knew better, of course. Massive desalinization plants, freshwater pipelines and aqueducts had been needed to bring water back to the Southwest in quantity. Even then, herculean efforts had been required to eradicate the invasive plant species that drained the river like mosquito swarms drain blood.

But the senses, and the heart, were harder to persuade. The Colorado was here, and so it had always been here, bringing life to the desert.

With the children off at school, the house was quiet. Sarah claimed the primary bathroom while John washed up at the farm sink in the kitchen, rolling the sleeves of his workshirt to make sure he got the red soil that had worked its way up to his elbows. He finished first and went about heating the soup and pouring some lemonade.

Grace was said in silence; the Congregation was not given to rote prayers, and individual devotion had pride of place. Then they spoke of planting, and Ellie’s triumph on a recent test.

But when she judged that John had enough soup in him to be a bit more mellow, Sarah tried again. “Joking aside, husband . . . what’s troubling you?”

He sighed. “Church politics, again. The leaders of the Boise community wanted me to join them in scheming to replace Elder Zebediah.”

“That again.” Sarah made a face. “But you had to know this would happen, when you found out Markley had designated you in his will to be his Truth Speaker.”

“I suppose so. But I will never understand why he did that. There were Truth Speakers he’d known for decades.”

She shook her head. They’d had this conversation too many times to count, in the years since the Chief Elder had passed. “None of them were with him that day in Lafayette Square.”

“I wasn’t even a Truth Speaker then.” John’s smile was crooked. “Just an eighteen-year-old zealot with more passion than sense – like half the crowd, that day.”

“Half the crowd didn’t jump between Markley and a taser.” Sarah gave her husband an appraising look. “I assume you put them off, as usual?”

“Of course,” he said gruffly. “A position on the council should be beyond . . . politics.”

“John, you of all people know full well that Markley was every bit as ‘political’ as all of these local leaders you are always complaining about.”

“It’s not the same. He got involved in secular politics – reluctantly, and only because the ‘Emperor’ was using religion as a weapon. With these local leaders, it’s all about church politics. About whether we change doctrine.”

“Well, they are churchmen,” she said reasonably. “Still, I’m not sure I agree with the bright line you’re trying to draw.”

Although her primary field of expertise was international trade and finance, Brown had deep regard for Sarah’s acumen as a political theorist, so he simply raised a bushy eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

“You know this division in the church, over whether to abandon long-standing teachings on human gender and sexuality, is driven by fundamentally secular concerns. We’ve been losing ground ever since the Empire fell. Losing numbers, losing influence in the wider society.”

“Nothing in scripture promises that the Congregation will be large,” Brown rumbled.

She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t try that voice of God on me, John,” she scolded. “The Emperor used ‘traditional Judeo-Christian teachings’ as a wedge to divide people and create a culture of fear. You’ve argued – and Markley argued, when he was alive – that this was a misuse of the traditional teachings. But the broader society isn’t quite so forgiving. Is it crazy for the Elders to wonder whether the Congregation’s decline might be a divine signal that society is right?”

“Evil people can misuse any teaching,” he replied, just a touch defensively. “But . . . no, I don’t think it’s crazy for them to wonder. It just seems strange to me that we should try to discern God’s purposes by counting noses.”

A discrete “ping” came from the wall screen on the refrigerator door. Brown glanced over as the screen lit up with a flash bulletin from one of the newpress services. “Oh!” His eyes widened in surprise. “Quentin Cromwell’s died!”

~o~O~o~

New York, New York
Two Days Later

Irreverent and irrelevant, the thought simmered in the back of Max Cromwell’s mind, a constant distraction: God, I hate this place. It didn’t help that the odors of a sickroom hadn’t dissipated completely. But even when his father had been alive, Max had found his apartment to be sterile and impersonal.

He forced himself to focus on the task at hand — the one his siblings had begged him to undertake. “Clara . . . I’m not trying to be mean.” He stared at his sister’s teary eyes and sighed internally. Drama. Always drama. “You know how much I appreciate everything you did for Father these past few months. We all do. But there’s no way you can make it through a eulogy in front of a packed Cathedral without dissolving.”

Clara shook her head angrily. “What? You think you should do it? No. No way!”

“No, I’m not saying that.” Max was emphatic. “I’ve been away too long. I know that. I was thinking, maybe Tilda–”

She was out of the nondescript couch faster than he could finish his sentence. “Tilda? Are you serious? Where was Tilda, when he was in the hospital? Or when they sent him home for hospice care? Huh?”

“Clara! That’s not fair, and you know it.” He couldn’t hide his exasperation. What’s got her so worked up? “What do you want from her? She’s got four kids to look after, and her husband will be stuck in Sabha until next year!!”

She stormed over to the side table and personally poured herself a hefty glass of wine, ignoring the autoservitor. “I know. That’s what I’m saying. Tilda had her kids. Elsa was in Boston doing her residency, Kurt was off doing a deal in KL, and Oskar wasn’t even on the planet. I’m the only one who was left to care for him.”

“I know, Clara,” Max started.

But again she shut him down. “No you don’t! Damn it, Max, he couldn’t get up to go to the bathroom, those last two weeks. When the hospice folks weren’t there . . . when Shania was getting some sleep . . . who was keeping him clean? Keeping him fed? Keeping him company? Me.”

Max wanted to say it had been her choice. After all, Father could have paid for 24/7 all-human care with the modern equivalent of pocket change. But apart from the years when he’d had all the kids with him at the big house in Westchester County, he’d always tried to live simply. Once Elsa had moved out, he’d just kept a suite for himself in the city, on the top floor of a big old apartment building that he’d bought decades back. The building where half the tenants paid him next to nothing in rent . . . and the rest paid less.

The more Max thought about it, it seemed likely that their father had decided on his own to do without additional mechanical assistance or hired human care. Clara could have said ‘no’; Father had always respected their autonomy. But she never would have. So Max rose, walked to where she was standing, and drew her into a hug that she only resisted for a few moments.

Eventually, she buried her face in his shoulder and wept. “You don’t know what it was like, watching him waste away like that. I hated it!”

He just made soothing noises, waiting until she’d cried herself out. He’d learned early on that it was the only way. Much as he’d always loved his sister, and close as the bond between them had always been, they were as different as any pair of twins could ever be. He was tall, strong, naturally athletic, relentlessly practical, and emotionally reserved. She was petite, soft, hopelessly romantic, and emotional to a fault. It was almost like they’d spent their time in the womb together perfecting the art of being yin and yang.

It probably took ten minutes before he was able to loosen his grip somewhat, and try again. “Okay, Sis. Real talk here. That Cathedral’s going to be packed. Like, in person packed. The Cardinal will be presiding. Representatives from at least six different countries. Senior officials from Washington, maybe even EVP Barnes. How will you feel, standing up there at the pulpit, looking out on all those pooh-bahs, not to mention the millions more who will be watching on holo? How will you be able to speak, when you’re already choked up just thinking about it?”

She stiffened when he started speaking, but he felt her slump as he finished.

“I know,” she said miserably. “I just . . . it should be me. You know how much it hurts, knowing that I can’t do it?”

“I understand,” he said soothingly. “It’s just the one thing, though. It’s not like you can’t help plan the service or the reception.”

This time she didn’t just stiffen. She pulled away completely. “Help?”

“Sure. I mean, we’ll all have work to do, of course. Even Oskar.”

“No, Max. Just no. I can’t talk about Father in front of thousands of people. Or millions, or whatever. Fine. Got it. But I’ll decide who’s gonna do it. Understand?”

“Now, just wait a minute.” Max knew how his siblings would react to that idea! “That’s something we should all decide together.”

“Oh, bullshit. Just bullshit. You and Tilda and Kurt will decide everything, just like you always do! Well, not this time! You go talk to them – all of them! – and you tell them that if they don’t want me standing up in the front pew screaming at whoever you put in the pulpit, you just let me decide who’s giving Father’s eulogy!”

“I don’t think–”

“I don’t care! You go talk to them. Tell them that this time, they’re just going to have to trust me. Whether they want to or not!”

He shook his head. “Look, I’ll talk to them. But they’re going to want to know your plans, Clara. That’s only fair.”

She glared at her brother, trying to gauge whether she needed to turn on the tears again, and decided she didn’t. She knew she’d won. “I’ll tell them,” she promised. “But it’s my choice. If they don’t like it they can suck on it!”

~o~O~o~

Clara looked at the four images on her holo table and gritted her teeth. Tilda, as usual, looked distracted, but she also looked puzzled. Max was wearing his long-suffering mask. Kurt, joining them from the middle of the Malaysian night, appeared to be amused. And Young Doctor Elsa, as usual short on sleep and temper, was clearly pissed.

Tilda, naturally, was the first to speak. The rest tended to defer to the eldest, who had helped to raise all of them. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not familiar with the term. Is this, like, a thing?”

“Only if you’re into cult-classic science fiction.” Kurt smiled indulgently. “I’d heard that it was a fad for a while, but I assumed it had died out.”

Elsa waved a hand sharply, blurring her virtual image. “Whatever. I don’t care. We don’t want some freak show, Clara. There are lots of people who can do a eulogy, if you don’t want any of us. The Cardinal would be happy to do it.”

“Truth Speakers are common at Congregation funerals,” Clara said hotly. “Just because it’s not your faith tradition doesn’t make it weird.”

Max put on his ‘patient’ face. “What does a ‘Truth Speaker’ do that’s different from a normal eulogy?”

Clara seethed, but she’d known they would fight her. “It’s different in the same way the truth is different from propaganda. Winfield Wells Wooley’s idea was that a Speaker would delve deep and find out what made the deceased person tick.” Reaching for the button she knew would work on all of them, she added, “in Father’s case, what made him great. The rest of it – the public stuff – everyone already knows that.”

“Winfield Wells Wooley?” Tilda appeared to be chasing a memory that eluded her. “I was never into SciFi, but . . . wasn’t there some controversy about him?”

Kurt shrugged. “Dubya Cubed was pretty outspoken against stuff like same-sex marriage, towards the end of the First Republic.”

“Dad wasn’t like that,” Elsa scoffed.

“How do you know?” Clara wasn’t about to let any of them get away with bald-faced assertions about what their father was really like – not even when she agreed with them. She’d been there with him and they hadn’t, and she wasn’t going to let any of them forget it.

But she knew Elsa got stubborn whenever she was challenged, so she shifted tactics right away. “Besides, it’s the idea that matters. Not who had the idea.”

Max jumped in before Elsa could bark back at his twin. “Kurt, help us out here. I don’t know anything about any of this, and it seems like you do. I think Clara deserves the opportunity to take the lead, but I don’t want to do something embarrassing.”

Clara opened her mouth to respond, but a “ping” on her wall screen heralded an incoming message. As her eyes moved to scan it, she forgot she’d been about to interject.

When it was clear that Clara wasn’t going to say anything, Kurt said, “I mean, I don’t know. It sounds kinda ‘woo woo’ and all, but it’s still a eulogy, when all’s said and done. The idea is to kind of give a focus to it, far as I can tell.”

“What about the anti-gay stuff?” Elsa asked. “Sure’s hell, that could be embarrassing. I don’t want to be associated with any Empire shit.”

“That’s one hell of a stretch, Els,” Max chided. “The Empire persecuted gay people, and the guy who dreamed up ‘truth speakers’ was opposed to gay marriage, so anyone who employs a Truth Speaker must want the Empire back? Or, at least, that jackass Garcia?”

“I’m just saying.” She folded her arms.

Kurt waved a hand dismissively. “Wooley was anti-gay before the Empire and the so-called ‘Decency Code’. Before we were born. It was all decades ago.”

“Well, you remembered it.” Elsa said stubbornly. “And Tilda remembered something.”

“That’s just because of those holovids they made off of his most famous series, maybe fifteen years ago or so.” Kurt shrugged. “I agree with Max – No-one’s going to think we’re pining for the Empire or something just because a ‘Truth Speaker’ delivers a eulogy for Father. I’m just surprised it’s still a thing – even a fringy thing. But Clara, you say the New Apostles use them?”

“Of course they do,” she said, exasperated. “Wooley was part of the Congregation, same as I am. And before you start on me, Elsa, I know the Congregation’s still officially opposed to same sex marriage and all that stuff. So’re the Catholics. That doesn’t mean we all feel that way.”

Max once again tried to push the discussion in a constructive direction. “Did you have someone specifically in mind?”

Clara smiled; the message she’d just received confirmed her meeting request. “Maybe,” she said coyly.

~o~O~o~

The Brown Homestead outside of Moab, Deseret
The Following Day

Sarah poked her head into Brown’s study and saw that he was sitting at his holo desk in the dark, apparently deep in thought.

“AIPA, turn the study lights on at half power,” she said.

Brown’s head came up and he turned the chair to face her as the soft lights came on. “Well, that was a surprise.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Clara Cromwell,” he said, puzzled.

Sarah made the connection immediately. “She wants you to Truth Speak for Quentin Cromwell?”

He nodded, still looking unsettled.

“What did you tell her?”

“That I’d look into it. I have a layman’s knowledge of who he is, and there are things I learned when I was researching Markley, but I don’t have a good feel for him as a person. I’d want a little more information before committing myself.”

She smiled knowingly. “You’re always so much more cautious, when it’s not a member of the Congregation.”

“It is easier within the flock,” he agreed. “Everyone at least understands what it is we do, and why.”

“It will be a big funeral,” she mused. “Maybe even as big as the Chief Elder’s.”

He rose, walked to where she was standing, and drew her into a hug, somehow needing to feel her closeness. “Probably larger. A very different audience though.”

She rested her head comfortably on his shoulder. It wasn’t all that rare for the two of them to talk like this, two reserved people who took comfort from their ability to let down their guards when they were alone. “Are you worried about that?”

“No.” He kissed the top of her head.

“Still, love . . . it’s a delicate moment. For the Congregation, of course, but I’m not just thinking of the Congregation.” She paused to organize her thoughts. “Cromwell was as closely associated with drafting the Fundamental Charter of Rights and Liberties as anyone, and Garcia’s Social Conservatives have been agitating to lift some of the privacy-based protections in the Charter. They dramatically outperformed in last year’s elections — even though the only national office on the ballot was Foreign Affairs.”

He shook his head. “For any other man, the Fundamental Charter would have been a crowning achievement; for Cromwell, it’s probably no more than a footnote. It makes no difference, though. If I agree to do it, I’m agreeing to speak the truth. The wider audience can only affect how I present the material, not what I present.”

“Fiat justicia, ruat caelum?”

He chuckled. “We offer truth, not justice. And I rather doubt the sky’s going to fall.”

She felt the rumble of his laugh and was comforted. “So, what do you need to do, to make a decision?”

“Off the top of my head, I can think of at least three full-length biographies of the man, not to mention shorter profiles and the like.”

“Well, get cracking,” she sighed. “But I’m warning you now, I’m not planting the kale all by myself!”

“How about the spinach?” He put the smile in his voice.

“Nope. And before you ask, not the turnips either.”

He chuckled again. “It’s a good thing I’m a fast reader.”

~o~O~o~

New York, New York
Ten days later

The Cardinal was out of his formal vestments minutes after he’d finished taping his weekly address. Outside of liturgical or quasi-liturgical functions, he vastly preferred his wardrobe to be simple and utilitarian.

“What do you have for me, Martin?” he asked his secretary, as they walked back toward his working office.

The tall young man at his side shrugged. “He’s impressive, I’ll say that much. And the speech he gave — or eulogy, or whatever you want to call it — at Elder Markley’s funeral was . . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Novel?” the Cardinal supplied, dryly.

“Yes . . . but I’d have to say, ‘novel’ in a positive sense. The Elder was a revered figure even before he decided to put the whole weight of the New Apostles’ Congregation behind the Defiance movement, or led the occupation at Lafayette Square, or negotiated with the dissident generals. You’d think there was nothing new to tell. But Brown was able to show how Markley’s career, his conversion, and his politics related to a chance meeting in his early twenties with a Franciscan mystic out in New Mexico. He made a truly compelling case.”

“A Franciscan?” The Cardinal chuckled. “Why am I not surprised? Still . . . good to see a little Catholicism of any kind in all of this. I assume Mr. Brown is a New Apostle as well?”

“It’s my understanding that the Congregation only selects from among their own members for the certification program.” Diplomatically, he added, “I realize some of their theology is pretty wild, and their ‘extra’ scriptures are pure heresy. But many of our social doctrines are similar.”

The Cardinal snorted. “Just makes it worse.” They entered his office through the private door, and the Cardinal said, “AIPA, has our visitor arrived?”

The perfectly modulated voice responded, “Yes, your Eminence.”

He glowered at his secretary. “Did you have them reprogram my AIPA again, Martin?”

The young man refused to be brow-beaten. “It won’t use the honorific when you're alone . . . your Eminence."

“Oh, fine,” he growled. “See him in, would you?”

The Cardinal’s office was surprisingly spartan; Brown hadn’t expected that.

“Mr. Brown.” The Cardinal’s smile was controlled and tight. Polished. It was the eyes that challenged, weighed, and measured.

Brown gave his hand, but withheld his own smile. He didn’t employ it often . . . and especially not on what he considered hostile territory. “Cardinal Darcy. Thank you for your time.”

The Cardinal gave his hand a well-practiced double-pump. “The least I could do, for your client. Clara seems very distraught.” With a gesture, he guided his guest to a simple grouping of chairs by the window. “I’ve asked my secretary, Monsignor Calloway to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”

Brown inclined his head without otherwise indicating assent, and shook the younger man’s hand.

They sat.

“Now,” the Cardinal said. “Clara told us that she wants you to serve as a ‘Truth Speaker’ at her father’s funeral mass as a sort of eulogy. My staff explained that this wasn’t possible, but she was most insistent. Because of her father’s legacy, I should like to find a way to accommodate her, so I wanted to speak to you personally.”

Brown thought it likely that the Cardinal might have been influenced by a desire to keep money flowing into the Archdiocesan Chancery from the Cromwell family trust, but he hadn’t come to score points. “What would you like to know?”

“As you may be aware, the Church’s official position is that eulogies by family and friends are not permitted during a funeral mass. The homily is delivered by a priest or deacon.”

Again, Brown inclined his head. “I’m also aware that the official position is often honored in the breach.”

“That’s true, of course,” the Cardinal said smoothly. “And we do sometimes make exceptions for one or two family members to make remarks following the homily. But that’s not what Clara is asking for.”

“No.”

The Cardinal settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Can you tell me, in your own words, just what you consider your role to be?”

“As my job title suggests, it is to speak the truth.” Brown’s head came up a fraction, causing his bristling beard to jut out aggressively.

The Cardinal was unfazed. “In our faith tradition, as in yours, we honor the truth. Christ told Pilate that the very reason that He came into the world was to testify to the truth. Yet surely, there are many truths that can be spoken about any man or woman who has ever lived.”

“Of course.” Brown chose not to elaborate.

“Well, then.” The Cardinal smiled. “I am personally familiar with any number of truths about Quentin Cromwell – truths which are almost perfect examples of Christian charity and teaching. Why might those be insufficient, in this setting?”

Brown cocked his head. “How well did you know him?”

“Well enough.” The Cardinal waved a hand in dismissal. “I can’t say we were close friends, but naturally I was acquainted with one of the most prominent Catholics in my diocese. In the world, come to that. We served on several boards and commissions together. His contributions to women’s shelters, in particular, were noteworthy, and we did good work together expanding access throughout the City.”

“Do you know why he did those things? What motivated him?”

“I imagine, like most people, his actions were a result of a multitude of factors. God’s grace, I believe, being prominent among them.”

“An ‘indwelling of the Holy Spirit?’” Brown was able to put the verbal air quotes into his question without appearing to be snide.

The Cardinal accepted the inquiry as genuine. “Yes, exactly.”

“And, were you to deliver remarks about Quentin Cromwell, you would use examples from his life to illustrate your point about the indwelling of grace, correct?”

The Cardinal thought for a moment before replying, “Yes, I expect so.”

“Without in any way diminishing the role of the divine spark – something which I accept just as you do – my job is different. Rather than use a person’s life to illustrate an external narrative or theological point, I examine a life to find the internal narrative. It’s an inductive and empirical approach aimed at discerning human motivations.”

The Cardinal frowned. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

“To put it simply, we attempt to discover the core truth that inspired the deceased, and speak that truth.”

“I see.” The Cardinal visibly pondered Brown’s statement, his eyes never leaving the intense man in front of him. Finally, he said, “If I may, what you propose to do seems at the very least to be presumptuous. Possibly blasphemous. Only God can see into our hearts.”

Brown nodded, but nothing in his expression suggested he was in any way daunted by the Cardinal’s challenge. “I agree completely. My role is not to speak absolute truth; it is only to speak the truth as I see it, allowing the community to view the deceased from a different perspective. One that is – and here I speak for my profession and not simply myself – highly trained, objective, and dispassionate. In my tradition, this is considered a blessing. It helps the listeners to better understand both the person they have lost, and their own lives. Often we don’t even see the things that drive us – and that lack of insight can be dangerous.”

“An interesting point – and a fair observation.” Despite himself, the Cardinal was intrigued.

Again, Brown chose not to respond, allowing the silence to stretch. Your move, he thought.

For the first time, the young Monsignor hazarded an interjection. “Eminence, perhaps . . . if Mr. Brown were to submit his remarks to you in advance of the service?”

Brown’s eyes grew flinty. “Absolutely not.”

The young man was polished and urbane, with a diplomat’s soft and reasonable tone. “But surely you see, Mr. Brown –”

“No.” Brown’s hand slashed through the air. “Truth Speakers are oath-bound. Even the clients who hire us are not permitted to see the text before it is delivered publicly.”

Calloway opened his mouth to respond, but the Cardinal’s upraised hand forestalled him, and the ruby stone in the heart of his heavy ecclesiastical ring flashed in the afternoon sunlight. “Thank you, Monsignor,” he murmured. But his eyes remained fixed on his guest. “Clara has agreed to this?”

“She has.”

“And the rest of the family?”

“Yes.”

The Cardinal’s gaze seemed to go through Brown, his focus someplace else. Someplace beyond. “Well . . . I suppose if the family is in agreement, we can make an exception. However, I will deliver a brief homily first, and reserve the right to say a few words after.” His frosty smile returned, and he met Brown’s eyes with renewed focus. “I assume that poses no issue to your oath?”

Brown inclined his head.

– To be continued.

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